I met Steve at Cameo, Verandah Bar.
At the time, I was an impressionable country boy new in town, and hanging out at Cameo inbetween brief sojourns at Afro, Karumaindo and Modern Green was what we campus lotharios did.
At the time, Cameo was being run by the Muigais, including Kamau - Kenyatta’s cousins. Near the stairway was this giant painting of Jomo and, oddly, a picture of a white woman from a movie I can’t remember; you see, Cameo also screened blue movies.
Anyway, Steve taught me how to play pool - Cameo had one of the very few pool tables in Nairobi.
We became firm friends.
For years, I hanged out with Steve, who came from Banana. We did the whole circuit. Shamuras and Shades in Westlands (the latter is what you know as K1). Njugunas. Kutwa. 680. Summers. ZanzeBar. You name it.
Years later, our favourite haunt had become the newly opened Simmers, which was just starting to get a reputation of being the upmarket Karumaindo. The open-air kuma market.
Again, here, we played countless games of pool with Steve. I ferked a few hoes too, to my everlasting shame.
Because Steve was always a bit hard-up, I almost always bought the alcohol. I didn’t mind really, he was good company, and from the way we laughed and touched and hugged - you know, the bro code - anybody could tell we were close.
One day, after I had had an extremely bad day at the office, I went to Simmers. Soon, Steve joined me, and like kawa he just sat at the table with stories and didn’t order a beer.
When I went to the loos, he called a waiter and ordered a beer on my account. I got mad.
Why did he take things for granted, I asked. Ferk, why didn’t he ever buy me a drink? Was he a woman?
Insults and anger later, Steve stormed out, leaving me seething. It was then the then supervisor asked me to calm down, and he then explained.
“FiudMacho, pole sana. We always thought Steve ni mtu wako, you know a special friend. Unajua hii Nairobi…”
“What do you mean a special friend…”
“Fieudmacho, you always sit together and you drink together all these years. Sisi tunafikiri nyinyi huwa pamoja…”
That’s when it hit me; Steve was gay. Worse, he was a a gay CSW. All this time he had been using me as the prop to make discreet connections with his clients. To all the staff of the clubs we had visited, I was the SPECIAL client. To them Steve was my toyboy.
I never sat on the same table with my toyboy again. Several years later I saw him and he was obviously ailing from a serious disease. I was later told (by a mutual bar friend) that he died a year or two later.
While I felt sad for a young life lost, I also felt a twinge of anger that he misused me so.
DEDICATED TO ALL THOSE COWBOYS WHO, BACK IN THE DAY, HANGED OUT AT MEOS, INCLUDING STEVE HIMSELF, MEJA, OSCAR, SWEETIE, ROOKIE, JOE AND BRAYO, AND WHO NOW HAVE CROSSED TO THE OTHER SIDE.
HOPE TO SEE YOU SOMEDAY, BUT NOT TOO SOON. I STILL GOT SOME FISH TO FRY.